Original Timeline Story List

There was a space beneath the forests and foothills of New Hampshire that came into its own only a few times a year, perhaps for two weeks at the end of each semester. It was surprisingly wide, amazingly broad, a stadium like out of the Roman Empire, but made modern and hidden deep underground. In it there was a town, or the idea of a town. A backdrop installed by procedural generation algorithms to play the part of a town. Town-shaped, at the least. There were blocks in the shape of buildings, the outlines and images of storefronts on streets. Sometimes, there were even people. They were people-shaped, at the least.

Down one alley, around a mockery of a lamp post and between the shapes of garbage cans, four heavy paws slapped the pavement. A loud woof and an arooh announced that the game was afoot, and so were they.

The back of their denim jackets declared them to be the Deliverators, and they were on a mission. They were also hanging onto the harness of an abnormally large dog. It was dog-shaped, at the least, with just a little more added on.

"Good pup." A hand slapped the side of a neck that was more column by width, and tea saucer ears waggled happily. One doggy face, flattened in the muzzle and bugged in the eyes, pulled into a grin. The other head on its own column of a neck stayed serious as its heavy paws negotiated the debris of the back alley.

There'd been a fight down there, and recently. Nostrils snuffled, then the pup woofed. Not recent enough to worry about.

"Next stop?" asked Deliverator #1. He had one hand on the harness and the other on the strap of his backpack.

"Got the address now," said Deliverator #2. She seemed to be having the time of her life. "Eyes on the sky? Got directions for us, eh? You there, Na--"

"Operational security!" Deliverator #3 didn't need to shout to be heard over the comm, but a certain volume level was appropriate. "But yeah, I've got a visual. Turn left at the road, two lights, then right to the next plaza."

"Got that, pup?"

"Woof!"

"Thanks, Nana!"

The third Deliverator groaned. "OpSec."

Pup could easily carry two if necessary, but it wasn't. Not yet. Deliverator #1 jogged alongside while his partner for the mission rode on top. People in the shape of people walked the street, and most didn't pay any attention to them.

Some did. "Get the package!" Three random people, as generically people-like as any others on the street, ran in from different directions.

"Readings?" called Deliverator #3.

From the top of the pup, Deliverator #2 rattled off, "Exemplars. One on the left's speedy and zappy. One on the right, burny. Straight ahead's just tough."

From the fake sky of the town-shaped place, a red missile with black polka dots crashed to earth. It was also people-shaped. The marauder straight ahead was tough enough to take the hit, but dazed enough not to fight when strong hands grabbed it, spun it around, and threw it into the burny marauder. The two collapsed in a people-shaped heap.

"Gonna get it!" yelled the speedy marauder. The soprano voice did not match the generic people-shape, but no one was really listening, anyway.

"Giddyap, pup!" Deliverator #1 was up on the harness next to #2, ready and braced. Pup did what pups did best, and took off running. There was a leap into a gallop that never put more than two paws on the ground at any time, loping along with both tongues waving in the breeze and both human teammates hanging on for dear life.

"Second light, pup!" The shout came one and a half stoplights too late. Claws scrabbled on asphalt as they made a wide curve into a park. The speedy marauder was not far behind, making brief bursts of acceleration with electric sparks at the heels.

"Tree! On the right!" It was tree-shaped, right up to the point where it wasn't. #2's warning arrived a half-second ahead of that.

"Woof!" Pup didn't bother slowing down. There was a thump and then a person-shaped speed bump behind them.

"Waah!" And then a soprano shriek.

A pat-slap on the side of the neck. "Good pup."

"More coming up!" yelled his partner. "Eyes in the sky!"

Their comm crackled. "Coming in low. What's the sitch?"

"There's two of them! One's feeling icy and the other's... oh, sugar."

It was easy to see the difference there, even though the two marauders were identically person-shaped. The left marauder had frost on its hands. The right marauder was now at least two feet taller than it'd been ten seconds ago, and wasn't stopping. The ice blaster caught #3 on the wing as she swept in, and the generic giant went in for the bear hug.

"Hey!" From a special sort of nowhere, a large lemon cream pie arrived to splatter the giant's face. As it spluttered, pup dashed on past, with #3 grabbing a hand up from #2. It was a short run to the park's far entrance.

Deliverator #3 was the only one of them in costume, wearing a sleek red flight suit with the black polka dots. A small map flickered on her visor's HUD. "Should be in the plaza just ahead," she told them.

"Man at a table, wearing a blue hat," #2 added. "That's what the file said."

"Um..." There was a problem here. One plaza, six tables, a whole lot of blue hats. A half-dozen identically person-shaped things turned to look their way. "Anything else mentioned in the file?"

Frantic tapping on a tablet pane, and then, "Doesn't give a power profile for me to check against, but... Er, potatos? That a thing?"

All four of pup's ears pricked at the word. With matched noses twitching and snuffling, they worked their way around the outer edge of the plaza before stopping at one table in particular. "Woof!"

"You're sure?"

"Waroof!"

"Right." Deliverator #1 opened his backpack to retrieve a large tablecloth. As the blue-hatted person-shaped thing before him watched on, he laid it across the table and set a plate. Then he pulled out one of those magician's scarfs on a stick. With a wave and a flourish, he passed the scarf over the plate, and it was suddenly not empty. A lovely room-temperature apple pie was there. "Dessert is served."

For a second, there was no reaction, and he worried that they'd messed up the delivery. But then, with the idea of the sound of a 'pop!' somewhere in the space outside their heads, the illusion disappeared, and it was Lenape, most senior student of Twain Cottage, sitting there with a big grin below the potato-shaped nose on his face. Looking around, the other people-shaped things in blue hats resolved into other upperclassmen, and from the park, a selection of freshmen, sophomores, and juniors ambled in.

Daniel 'Donut' Diggins, no longer Deliverator #1, gave them all a wave over, then made with the scarf trick one more time. When it passed over the tablecloth, the 'before' was bare red checkerboard and the 'after' was several dozen donuts deep. "And help yourselves, everyone!"

A loud crackle heralded the PA system announcement. "This ends our special non-combatant Combat Finals session. Many thanks to our student volunteers for their assistance, and to Glam for providing the disguises. Students Donut, Assay, Ladybird, and Cookie, please exit to the debriefing room for your grades."

"Aroo!" Twin doggy heads panted with wide grins.

"I hear ya, pup," said Daniel. "Good job."

Sensei Tolman was standing by a display screen as they walked into the debriefing room. The flat panel took up most of the wall, and it currently had a clip show of the past half hour of their lives running on it. Daniel liked the look of the matching jackets he and Hanna'd come up with, two days earlier when they'd received first word of their special situation. Neither of them'd had a functional costume, unless they counted his Mongolian wrestling getup. He sure didn't. But with some spare cash and the costumes lab, getting two denim jackets embossed with DELIVERATORS on the back had been a cinch.

They'd offered to make one for Nana, too, but the ladybug avatar'd turned them down.

-clang- The bell rang, and Sensei Tolman began. "Congratulations; you all passed. This meeting is to discuss finer points, but will not reflect on your grades, which have already been entered into the system. No amount of bribery will change that."

"Not even caramel cream scones?" he asked.

"Especially not with cashew crumble on top." The combat professor nodded as he passed her the specific non-bribe on a napkin. "Mm, thanks. Too long since breakfast. So, Donut, obviously your power was mission critical, as was your handling of Cookie, but good work with the official offensive usage. It didn't affect your stamina too much, I take it?"

"No, ma'am."

"Good. Your fitness regimen is showing. You'll be continuing with your sports club next term?"

"Yes, ma'am." The American Mongolian Wrestling Federation felt more like a friends group than an actual club, but it was definitely good exercise.

"Next up..." Sensei Tolman turned to Nana. "Ladybird, thank you again for agreeing to this. Your first BMA final should have been more one-on-one like the rest, but you proved excellent on tactical overwatch and interception. Thoughts on a training team? I know it's technically your first year here, but you're also a sophomore. There must be some invitations in your mailbox."

"A few," Nana admitted. "The FSHA's been annoying about it, but that's not my career path. I'll look into it more next term, I promise."

"Good. Now, Assay?"

"Mrphl?" Hannah'd snagged a donut from the table at the end of the final, and was caught with her mouth full now. "Mm, glp, yes, ma'am?"

"You are one of the most defenseless students in this school."

"Er, yes? Guess I am, eh?"

"And you have been kidnapped five times in the past year?"

Nana groaned. "Six," she corrected for her friend.

"Only once since September!"

Sensei Tolman had a short, blunt sigh. "Your extrasensory ability is useful, either as supplementary to intel or for tactical purposes, as you have shown today, but I must insist you take at least the bare minimum of a self-defense course next term. Basic Survival 101 is not going to cut it."

"Maybe I can join Donut's club, eh?"

"Er, there's a specific rule against girls participating in the sport," he had to tell her. "Like, historically."

"Eh? What? Why?"

"Dunno the full story behind it--yanno, historically--but in the right now it's to keep Ratel from forcing her way in."

"Oh... that makes sense. Okey-dokey, Sensei! I shall do my best, eh!"

Another sigh from the combat professor. "I shall see if I can arrange something for you. So, finally, Cookie."

"Woof?" The paired Boston terrier heads looked at her and turned at the same precise angles to show they were paying her full attention.

"Good pup. Keep it up."

"Aroo!"

Friday, December 22, 2016, 10:05 AM

If anybody'd asked back in September, Daniel wouldn't have thought the survival class final would be the easy part. Not that anyone'd told him or any other freshmen what was coming for them. Keeping it a surprise was apparently a Whateley tradition. But after a week of freshman drama and combat scenarios, there came the real terror.

Exams. Just a year ago, back when he was still living in Reverend Barkus's community up in the mountains with the rest of his family, Daniel hadn't had to worry none about big tests. The church school didn't bother with them. Didn't bother with a lot of stuff, actually, which was why he'd taken make-up classes with Miz Debbie all spring and summer, and then remedial classes all the fall term. He did his best, that he did, but that didn't make it easy. His mutation wasn't the kind that made a kid think better or harder.

"You're selling yourself short," his English teacher told him, after he'd told her how he felt. Miz Barnes was an older lady who looked younger than some of the senior girls, but maybe it was just her smile. She knew how to use it. Daniel was pretty sure most of the guys in the English Language Learners class had crushed on her sometime in the past four months, even after she got that impressive rock on her ring finger.

"Just don't feel like I'm gettin' anywhere," he admitted. "More I study, less I know. Y'know?"

Miz Barnes nodded. "Like Socrates said, 'The only true wisdom consists in knowing you know nothing'..." She paused for a moment, then chuckled to herself. "Showing my age here, but I was hoping you'd shout 'Excellent!" just now."

"Huh?"

"Never mind. Another item for movie nights going into next term. Anyway, are we clear on things?"

"Maybe?" He coughed nervously and glanced at everything in the little office except his teacher, momentarily. "Er, maybe I'd've prefered a real final to, um, this interview. 'Least then, I'd know what I was doing, maybe."

"Oh, if only life were all multiple choice," agreed the teacher. "But it's rather heavy on the interview questions, I'm afraid. Look, just remember what I said at the start of the semester. The point of the class is to be doing better by the end of it, and you are. You're doing well enough to realize how not well you're doing in some other areas, which is enough for me to put a P for passing on your report card."

"Thanks, ma'am."

"You earned it. Now, have you signed up for my Winter Term composition course?"

Like anyone in the class had said no to that. "Of course, ma'am."

"Got your winter vacation drills and practice pages?"

"In a manila and on my tablet, ma'am."

"Good." She waved him to the door. "Go on. Merry Christmas and happy holidays."

"You, too, ma'am." Daniel stood up, paused for a sec, and then pulled a gingerbread cookie out of the air. "Merry Christmas."

"Aw, thank you."

On his way out, he gave a thumb-up to his roommate Pete, who was still sitting in the waiting chair outside Miz Barnes's office. A simple chocolate donut jelped raise the young giant's spirits. His smile almost matched his face. "Meet up at Crystal Hall for lunch, then packing?" he asked. "Could use a hand."

A great big thumb-up answered him, and then the humorless young man who looked like a clown went in for his own interview.

Pete'd be fine. Daniel didn't think Miz Barnes'd fail anyone in the class, as long as they'd worked for it, and Lord knew Pete'd put the work in. Apart from all the obvious stuff like the frizzy green hair and big red nose, his roommate really did get the kind of mutation that made the brain go better. They just all had to figger out how to use what they had, in their own ways.

After lunch, after happy chats and long goodbyes, Pete was helping him move a suitcase down the stairs. It wasn't so big, but the stairs weren't so wide, and having the strong kid carry it on one shoulder was a big help. "Easy peasy," said Pete. "Anything else?"

"Just Cookie's stuff. Um..." Daniel nodded to the pile by the front door of the Twain foyer. Most of it was still in the school delivery boxes because it'd only come in from the store this morning. "Turns out, live freight rules got a lot of requirements for critter comfort. Just gotta get it all to the transport van."

"Shit..." Pete hefted one of the doggy boxes and nudged another. "Yeah, I think I can get this. Trolley would help. Hey!" the young giant yelled to a passing sophomore. "You finished with that?"

The other kid met the question with a frown. "No, actually, I've got a full load left to get to the labs, and--"

"Aw, we just gotta move this to the pickup circle and we'll be out of your hair," said Pete.

"Cinnamon roll?" Daniel said quickly, producing the snack in a snap.

"Oh, it's you... well, I guess I could use a break. Make it quick!" the sophomore told them. "And no clowning around!"

Pete's anger management classes must've been doing him some good, because the older kid didn't get a punch through the face at that. The boxes got the worst of it, but they were tough.

"Here, have another," Daniel told him once they were out the door with Cookie's supplies.

"Another what? Oh." Pete blinked at the donut in front of his big red nose. "Thanks."

"No problem."

Just around the corner from the cottage front, an old storage shed had given way to a thing that was technically a doghouse. A dog lived in it, at least. But when that dog was a two-headed Boston terrier the size of a pony, eveything else got upsized as well. Daniel was still working on the finer points of basic geometry, but he figgered pup's little apartment was twice as big as a standard room in Twain, and half of that was the bedding. The rest was play mat. Cookie was busily destroying the latest model in a series of indestructible devisor chew toys, but when pup saw Daniel, the toy got placed in the big toybox on the far wall, to be demolished later.

"Woof!"

"Yeah, all good to go," he told pup. "Made your pit stop?"

The sets of puppy dog eyes rolled to glance at each other, and then there was a whine in stereo.

"Well, go on."

Another whine.

"Been over this, pup. We dunno what the facilities'll be like on the way, and the motion-sickness medicine ain't gonna help. So give it one last go, please?"

Nothing quite showed shame and embarrassment like bulbous puppy eyes, but Cookie knew what pup had to do. The toilet was out the back of the doghouse, a smaller module custom-made for a biodevisor's school project.

The biodevisor must've been lying in wait, because she was right there saying "Hi, Donut!" before he even clocked she was inbound.

"Hey, Petshop." Some kids prefered code names, made a point of using them, and he obliged. "Thanks for helping with the live freight requirements."

"Not a problemo, Big D. Are you sure I can't, yanno, stow away?" Her grin was just barely on the right side of manic, and he wasn't sure he liked that he knew the difference by now.

"Thought you were getting together with your dad this holiday?"

"Yeah, but..." The sophomore girl shrugged. "Can't really do anything fun, yanno? Not with the research restraining order on him. But you get to go to Karedonia, of all places? I'm so jelly I could squish!" The grin turned to a pout that was potentially on the wrong side of manic. "But the Royal Biotechnology and Abominations World Kennel Club Association's got a minimum age requirement."

"Maybe in a few?" he suggested.

"Definitely. Bring me back something gruesome!" She had a big hug for him, and another for Cookie as pup returned from doing pup's business. Each doggy head got a kiss as well. "TTFN!"

Pete had held back while the sophomore was there, but as soon as she was gone: "Man, dunno how you put up with the crazy ones."

"All relative, I suppose. And even the crazy ones are nice, most of the time."

The humorless young giant snorted. "To you, maybe. Some of us still can't get a date."

"What about that one girl in Dickinson? Physique?" he said.

"Yeah..." Pete's head sank between his shoulders. "Dunno, man. She's a little weird about it all."

Within basic eyeball distance, Daniel could see five students levitating, two more actually in flight above the trees, one so tall she might've been a tree, plus a significant percentage with horns, tails, or assorted other appendages not usually associated with people-shaped folk, and so it was in a perfectly reasonable tone that he said, "Aren't we all?"

"Says the boy who got pink icing eyes and nothin' else."

Nothing much to do but shrug at that. It did remind him to take out the sunglasses, though. His irises really were a bright shade of unnatural pink, which didn't make bright lights any nicer for him. But mostly it kept folks from staring, whenever he wasn't at Whateley. He led Cookie along, with Pete pushing the trolley. Lots of people out and about, mostly doing what he was doing or else getting ready for it, and he got as many greetings as he gave. Every few yards, someone else was wishing happy holidays and delivering waves, handshakes, or hugs. Whirlibird swept in to give him a peck on the cheek before flying off again, while Avsel zoomed past with a quick ear-skritch for Cookie. Erica and Calliope stopped to give hugs to him and Cookie--and then Pete, too, much to the young giant's surprise. Daniel wasn't even sure how the Italian girl knew his roommate, but it brought a rare, real smile to that face.

Here and about, there were signs that the school was preparing for the holiday spirit, even if most of the student body would be gone before the big day. Cottage windows twinkled with colored lights, signs popped up in the silliest places, and he'd personally spent the previous day prepping the gingerbread mix. For a brief moment as they pushed the trolley along, Daniel got a glimpse of Old Man Whateley, between school buildings. The statue of the school founder out in front was frequently decorated, rarely in a serious way, and for the past week he'd been decked out as an angel, with little statues of Mary, Joseph, and the Baby Jesus on the lawn below him. Pet Shop had volunteered to provide animals for the nativity display, but the school administration'd turned her down on that. Probably for the best.

There were several spots for pickup and delivery of students around campus, but most of the big stuff happened through Site C, around the back end of campus where the hauler trucks parked. There was a hauler idling in the circle right then, with its rear door open just enough for Daniel to see a smaller version of Cookie's doghouse. The driver helped him and Pete stow the luggage, and the man got a cinnamon roll in thanks. For the pup, Daniel left a pair of meat pies, a favorite surviving chew toy, and pup's teddy bear. With Cookie settled in and himself in the cab's passenger seat, Daniel waved goodbye to Pete.

The drive to Berlin wasn't that long, but it was only the beginning.

The Whateley air shuttle service from Berlin to New York was cramped, but thankfully short. The strange little airplane likely only passed FAA regulations on technicalities and grandfather clauses, and its modular seating could accommodate the weirdest of body plans. Making space for Cookie in the middle row was easy, even if pup wasn't too happy. The plane's unnaturally smooth flight and the attention of several other student passengers helped. Ear skritches were the best medicine for any pupsets.

If that could be the end of the trip, things'd be great, but it was only one more step. Half an hour, up and down, and they were taxiing into a special section of La Guardia Airport for transfers. The Whateley air shuttle was allowed just the one route, from Berlin to New York. Daniel wondered if it made the other airplanes nervous or something.

He and Cookie deplaned with everyone else, but then they stayed in the little terminal while the other students scattered to the four corners of the airport. Pup whined, but he was ready with hugs and ear skritches. They only had to wait a few minutes for a blonde woman in an airline uniform came to meet them. By the way her eyes went wide, no one'd told her exactly who or what she was fetching, but a brief introduction to the pup cured any misgivings. Pup was good like that.

"On behalf of Royal Karedonia Airlines," the lady said as they walked along, "allow me to welcome you to our special live freight service."

"Y'all do this a lot?" he asked.

"With Her Imperial Highness in charge most of the time, ah..." The woman's smile was stretched tight over her lips. "There is enough. I believe the airplane you're taking was originally used by the Qatari government to transfer racehorses. It's used for standard freight more often than not, but we've got the modules for bio-devises and living artifacts available. Ah..." She paused again. "You do have your passport ready, right? And your, um, dog's paperwork? I need to drop you off at Customs and Zoological Control for a pre-flight clearance check."

"Yes'm," he replied. "And thanks for walking with us."

"Just doing my job," the lady said. "We all are." And she waved them through the door to their next stop.

It was almost three in the afternoon. Their flight left at half-past five, and the waiting room lived up to its name. There was the one way in, and no way out that he and Cookie could do on their own. No one there to do it for them, either.

He was mindful of the cameras in the corners. Someone was watching, most likely.

The chairs in the room weren't fixed in place, so Daniel moved and stacked them to the sides so Cookie had space to loaf with their paws folded under them and both heads resting. The little valley between the columns of their necks was a perfect size for himself to add a third head in, resting up like pup was one big, fuzzy, slightly smelly sofa. He had his tablet out and was reading fairy tales to Cookie for a quarter of an hour before a section of the far wall turned out to be a door. As one, three heads looked up to see who'd arrived.

Three heads stared back. They were all attached to different bodies. Two of those heads had similar short haircuts, similar bristly moustaches, and identical uniforms with US flags on the left shoulder. One wore glasses, and the other just squinted. The third head and body were nothing like the rest: not the uniform, which was sleekly stylish, carefully decorated, and perilously form-fitting on an agressively feminine frame. Not the hair, which was long, straight, and silver. Certainly not the skin, which was blacker than any black kid Daniel'd met at school. He could probably match the shade in cake icing, but it'd take all the food coloring in the tube to do.

Kind of a surprising sight, but he wasn't too surprised. He was headed for Karedonia, after all. He was gonna meet a drow eventually. Just hadn't expected it to be here.

"Um, hello?" he said as he scrambled to his feet. Behind him, Cookie sat up and projected puppy-dog innocence. "Are you from Customs and, er, Zoology?"

"I am," confirmed the drow lady. Her voice was as silky as her hair. "Agent Martina Spengler, Karedonia Bureau of Customs and Zoology, NYC Branch. And with me are Agents Miller and Szelenski of US Customs. They are here today as observers. Isn't that right, gentlemen?" Muted grumbles answered her. "Right. So, first, if I could see your papers?"

Daniel had them ready, his and Cookie's. The passport got a cursory examination and a nod. His MID took a moment longer, and he didn't miss how Miller, the guy with the squint, flinched when the sunglasses got pulled down to show their proper pink color. Pup's documentation took a lot longer.

"As you can see, gentlemen," said Agent Spengler. "Here we have a Class 3 Living Artifact, as per the Wilkins system of classification. The genetic composition is largely single-source and completely mundane, but implementation during the creation process was not."

"...what the hell is up with the name?" muttered Agent Szelenski, the guy with the glasses. It was easy to see when he got to the end of Cookie's full name as written, only to find the asterisk with 'continued on reverse'.

"Consider it an occupational hazard," said the drow. "Devisors are often geniuses at everything but giving decent names to their creations. Come down with me to Karedonia sometime, and you'll see much worse."

Szelenski mumbled something else at that, but Daniel didn't catch much more than, "...see what happened to you..." Lived experience at Whateley told him to pay even less attention for now. He still had business to attend to, and no time for potential drama.

"Pup answers to Cookie," he said instead. "Easier for everyone."

"Noted. And your connection to... him?" said Miller.

"Them," Daniel corrected. "Or it, depending. Pup works, too. The powers testing guys think pup's got, erm, basic empathy--to coordinate the heads, something like that?--and it let them imprint on me. Bonded, guess you could say. Not my dog so much as I'm its boy."

"And it understands what we're saying?" Miller didn't sound like he believed that, or didn't want to believe that, and in any case was not at all happy that he needed to believe it.

The Karedonian agent tsked the American. "Read the profile all the way through beforehand, Joseph. Cookie here has a thorough one, for a Class 3. It's why we're doing this training session here, and not with something more temperamental. Now, Mr. Diggins, we'll be moving you and Cookie to the live freight module soon, but we need to do a basic inspection to make sure everything's on the up and up."

"You heard her, pup," he said to the dog. "Showtime, like we practiced."

Both heads nodded, and then Cookie struck a pose. All four legs were firmly planted, both heads were held up high, and the double-barrel chest puffed proudly. The three agents circled the pup, occasionally consulting their notes.

"Damn, no balls," said Szelenski.

"No reproductive capacity," corrected Spengler. She checked her tablet again and nodded. "Which makes subsection 3 easier to deal with. Not even Karedonia wishes to run the risk of a catastrophic breeding situation. Not after the neo-tribble incident."

"All good to go?" asked Daniel.

Another few taps on the tablet, and the drow lady nodded. "Yes. And I'm sorry for the wait. My esteemed colleagues here need the live animal experience, and Cookie's safer than most of what we get to deal with. The US side of the office is woefully unprepared."

"Aw, give us a break, Martin... ah." The last syllable was weirdly delayed. "I mean, what's the weirdest that could happen?"

Daniel could name a few examples, and to the amusement of the drow lady, he beat her to it. "Um, predatory jackalopes, hoop snakes, inflatable porcupines, kamikaze squirrels, and a cat that breaks trees with its head?"

The two American agents stared at him while the Karedonian appeared to be suppressing a chuckle. "Oh, is that all?" said Szelenski, in a tone that hoped it was.

"Well, never saw the invisible exploding rabbits, but..."

"It gets weirder," the drow confirmed. "In any case? Mr. Diggins, Cookie, you two are cleared to board Flight KR110 to Karedonia. Have a nice flight and enjoy your stay."

"Thanks, ma'am."

The drow lady chuckled and shook her head. "Come along, gentlemen. Paperwork awaits."

Another Royal Karedonia Airlines flight attendant brought them to the live freight module. That lady was also black, but in the more normal, human way. The airline uniform fit her just as well, though. In the short walk over, Cookie'd charmed her into many ear skritches.

"Now, it's a four and a half hour flight," she informed them as pup settled into the module and Daniel took his own seat. "You're lucky they renewed service to NYC. It's a bit hit or miss at times. Anyway, your spot is out of the way down here, so I'm afraid we can't offer standard in-flight services. Wish we could, really." Another ear skritch delivered the apology in the best way. "But we've got enough to do upstairs in the passenger section as it is. There's a fridge down next to your chair with the in-flight meal and drinks, ready whenever you want them. You can reheat the meal with the little widget in the corner. Don't ask me how it works; just does. If things get bumpy I'll ring you to check up, but otherwise you two'll have the quietest flight on the plane. Better than first class." Her grin was bright as she chuckled.

"Thanks, Miz... um." He glanced at her chest while trying not to look right at her chest. "Miz Sloakum."

"Aren't you just a dear." She chuckled again. "And you're a good pup," she assured Cookie. "So, we're all set?"

"Yes'm. I think so." His seat in the module was more of a workstation, with a big comfy chair and retractable workbench. It was perfect for laying out his winter schoolwork. The math pages were all printouts, and the reading book was actual words on paper. There was homework on the tablet, too, but he had a different use for the thing.

Setting it on its little stand, Daniel plugged the tablet into the chair's sidebar power outlet and put it into projector mode. A handy-dandy attachment from the Whateley store let him put the screen on the nearest wall.

"Right, pup. Time to take your airsickness pills. No..." he said to the piteous whine. "Ain't gettin' out of this. Last thing we want is you to be sick up here." With a wave of his hand, he magicked up a pair of pup's favorite meat pies. A big pink tablet got pressed into the middle of each. "Okay, now, open the mouth and past the gums..."

Pup was a good doggy. Both pies were chomped and swallowed fast, with only a bit of a bleh afterwards. Then Cookie settled into its bedding and sighed out both noses. Pup perked up again when the projector started playing. Daniel had five hours of pup's favorite shows on file, alternating between Clifford and Friends, Curious George, and a new show called Nook and Cranny about an albino raccoon and a blonde tanuki dog from Japan. Daniel hadn't figgered out that last one yet, but pup seemed to enjoy it.

A few minutes later, the plane took off, and then it was a nice, quiet flight all the way south.

Eighth Wonder Intercontinental Ballistic Aerodrome, Imperial Demesne of Karedonia
December 22nd, 2016, 8:52 PM

There weren't any windows in the live-freight module, so the only way for Daniel to tell they were over the ocean was the status display on the airplane's seat screen. He probably could've watched movies on the thing, but between his homework and pup's cartoons, he'd had enough to keep him busy and entertained. That was why he didn't realize they were about to arrive until the moment the alert pinged and the plane entered its descent.

It was a really smooth landing. Hardly a bumpity-bump. Once they'd stopped, he undid his seatbelt and gave Cookie a hug for being such a brave pup. After a moment to tidy up, they were ready to head outside.

Miz Sloakum was clattering down the steps from the upper deck as he stuck his head out. "Hey, you two. Have a nice, quiet flight?"

"Smoothest I ever had," he replied, like he'd ever flown more than two or three times in his entire life, and never this far. Even the trip to Whateley had been by train with Cookie in a special car. "Um, where to next?"

'Next' was Customs, Immigration, and Zoology, though not for long. With his passport, MID, and pup's paperwork handy, it didn't take more than fifteen minutes to go from one side of the security line to the other. Then ten more minutes at the luggage carousel, waiting for his stuff.

Cookie's supplies had been forwarded on through the Imperial Post, he'd been told, and would arrive at his listed place of stay for the holidays in an hour or two. So said the drow lady at the final security check, the one with the RKA uniform and no hair on her scalp. The lady had a pair of pure white eyebrows that somehow made up for it, dangling like bug antennas in the breeze. She knew his name before he told her, without even a glance at her tablet. Maybe the security at Customs was just that good, or maybe he was just that obvious standing next to Cookie. Daniel didn't think it was a good time to ask.

Once she had looked at his luggage, she opened up her tablet for real and checked the last few items off. "This is for you," she said, with something small in hand. "Hold on to it whenever you are not in the immediate vicinity of your registered place of stay."

The something was a thick plastic dogtag on a lanyard. When Daniel held it up, he could see a microchip on one end. "What's this?"

"Tourist visa. If there's any trouble, then the constables can get your visitor status from that. As well, should there be a containment breach of any sort--chemical, biological, nuclear, assorted other--the sensors embedded with it can give the medics all the necessary details of exposure. Just a precaution," she assured him. "Enjoy your stay."

And with that, he was out of the security zone and starting his vacation. It was certainly a memorable place to start. He may not have ridden on many airplanes, but he'd seen even fewer airports. At least, not the public areas where people were actually out and about and did stuff like shopping or eating between flights. Most didn't allow pets to go freely, and none of them would let Cookie in. This place did, without a single single question beyond "Housebroken?" That was enough to tell Daniel that Eighth Wonder Intercontinental was different, but he still didn't have a sense of scale.

He figured 'really really big time weird' would be the new normal for a while, though even then he couldn't be sure. Whateley jaded a kid pretty fast.

Now, Miz Barnes had read the class a poem, last week of school, about a great ruler who'd ordered a great big domed paradise built for his vacations, and Eighth Wonder Intercontinental might've been a decent second go at it. There were the terminal branches forming five points of a honeycomb ring, not all of them for airplanes from what he could tell, but in the middle there was a real, honest dome set high above, with gardens and waterworks and stores all around. He and pup couldn't get over to that part just yet, since they were still following the directions for new arrivals, but it looked like there was an entire amusement park set over on one side, with those weird tube things that looped around in the air and the happy shrieks of kids riding through them. There was music and lights and lots of cheery Christmas shopping. And miniature pterodactyl-things flapping between garden spots, little guys the size of crows but with leathery wings, devil tails, and teeth. One perched on a railing, right next to a 'Don't Feed the Wyverns' sign, to watch the arriving passengers walk by.

Cookie growled and made it flap away.

"Good pup." "Woof!"

A familiar face met them at the exit doors. "Cookie! Daniel!" Mr. Carlyle was looking better than ever. Maybe it was the flower-print shirt and shorts. A getup like that made anyone look a few years younger. Not to mention cooler. Daniel was already feeling the need to shuck most of what he'd worn down from New Hampshire.

"Hey, Doc," he said once the old man'd finished giving Cookie a double-barreled hug around both necks. He got the next hug, warm and solid with a pat on the back, and it felt good. Like family.

He needed a donut, but that'd have to wait.

"Come along, you two," Mr. Carlyle was saying. "I have a car in the parking garage."

The quickest way there was across four lanes of traffic, not so busy but still a lot too much like that one old retro game that Marcus in Poe Cottage had shown him once. The other way involved a freight elevator, two flights of extra-wide stairs, and a vaulted underground corridor that had almost as much traffic as up above. But since it was all basically golf carts going along the same way, he and Cookie could just go with the flow with Mr. Carlyle in the lead.

"Er, what's that?" he had to ask when he saw the Doc's car.

"It's a rental." The old man grinned like he'd just made a funny, only nothing could be as funny as the thing in the parking space. It looked like an old station wagon'd had a baby with a pickup truck, only there'd been unfortunate complications and emergency surgery. The truck bed was basically one circle, and the cab another circle, joined up like a flattened figure 8, and the cab had a bubble top instead of a roof or windshield, like out of an old Jetsons cartoon. The headlights were triangular, the wheels were something not exactly like the usual rubber, and the entire thing was painted in what the Doc described euphemistically as 'decent green.'

He needed to thank Miz Barnes for all those vocabulary exercises, because they were coming in right handy. "Okay, let me try a different question," he said. "Why is that?"

"It's a Gizmobile."

"A what?"

Cookie tested the truck bed with one broad paw, checking the bounce of the suspension. Then, with a yip, pup hopped in. The so-called Gizmobile hardly wobbled.

"Tough little things," Mr. Carlyle said. "The Emperor Emeritus tried to create an automotive industry for the country decades ago, but it never took off. Figuratively, at least. Pretty sure they had a flight-capable model at the rental shop..." They were getting seated just then, and Daniel made double-sure to buckle up. "Incredibly fuel-efficient as well, seeing as they don't run on any. Of course, no other country wanted to install the proprietary energy grid technology necessary to keep them powered."

"You don't say..." The car made practically no noise as it pulled out of the parking lot. Speed stripes shook the thing harder than the engine did. "So, um, where's Miz Cordelia and Miz Debbie?"

"At the house," the Doc told him. "It was a long trip for them, and Cody's... ah..." The old man sighed. "We're not getting any younger, either of us. A sad fact of life. She needs her rest, and Debbie said she'd make something in the kitchen. Sent me out to get groceries this afternoon, just to make sure the cupboards were properly stocked. With a list! It's like she didn't trust me to have things in order before they arrived."

"How long have you been staying there?" asked Daniel.

"Only a week, and they arrived two days ago. Oh, I've been so busy with the menagerie preparations..."

"Been eating anything better than takeout and cup noodles?" He took the old man's silence for the confession it was. "Been eating anything?"

"I'll have you know that the fine folk at the Royal Karedonian Para-Zoological and Botanical Gardens have been good about making sure I eat while I'm working with them," said Mr. Carlyle. "It's part of their visiting biodevisor service package. It's like they think we can't take care of ourselves properly."

Daniel didn't even need to say a word. Hardly even raised an eyebrow.

"Oh, all right, yes, they're absolutely right about that, too. But at least I can say that I'm getting the true royal treatment, ha-ha."

"Well, I'm providing the desserts, whenever," he told the old man. "Least I can do."

"Your least is better than another's most," said Mr. Carlyle. "And it shall be appreciated, as always. Now, before we arrive, we need to talk business."

"Yeah?"

"Tomorrow, the three of us go to the convention center to register Cookie for the show. And we can also see some of the other entrants. That should be interesting. It abuts the Para-Zoological Gardens as well, so we can check in on the Talltale critters in the menagerie."

"Yeah..." He didn't have the fondest memories of those things, but they were all technically Cookie's siblings in mad science, so he felt obliged. "And the show's...?"

"On Boxing Day."

"Um, do I need gloves?"

The old man snorted. "The day after Christmas is called Boxing Day in the United Kingdom and various Commonwealth countries, and a significant portion of Karedonia's base population is from Belize, Trinidad, and the British Virgin Islands. And yes, there is a prize fight to see. Between combat drones. Quite the spectacle, if you're into robots."

Daniel hadn't been paying much attention to what was outside the ugly green car, but a set of flashing lights pulled his eyes to right off the road. It might've been a cop car, except it was flying, then landing, then running on four metallic legs down a rocky retaining slope to the beachfront below. There was a crackle of light, a shout, and then they were past the scene. "Um..."

"Someone was getting rowdy, I suppose." Mr. Carlyle's face had lost its humor. "Remember, Daniel. Karedonia is a beautiful place, but it is also a land where supervillains and their henchmen walk openly. There are incidents, arguments, and if those get out of hand, the Gizmapolitan Police have their special units. I want us all to enjoy this vacation--and we will--but don't forget to play things safe at all times."

He didn't know what to say to that, but he was sure glad when they got to the rental house a few minutes later.

Mr. Carlyle had called it a house. Daniel'd heard the old man say it half a dozen times on the way in. Somehow, he'd imagined something like what Miz Debbie had in Idaho, minus the attached bakery shop. Compact, petite, A-frame roof and white picket fence in front.

What he was looking at was a mansion. Okay, maybe a small mansion, and he'd only say that because it was less big than Twain Cottage. It was built on a rocky platform about a hundred yards from the beach, with road access, a second story veranda, a... "How much are you paying for this?" he had to wonder.

"Not as much as you'd think, and part of that's comped," said Mr. Carlyle. "Lapsed time-share foreclosure, turned into a rental by the Royal Bureau of Tourism for use by visiting colleagues of Her Imperial Highness. Between the kennel show and the menagerie donation, I count, so we can reap the benefits for a few weeks. Cody!" he called up from the driveway. "Debbie! We're here!"

The front door flew open and a familiar lady ran down the steps. "Oh, Daniel! Look at you, getting so tall."

"Woof!"

"And you, too, Cookie. Taking care of yourselves?"

"Yes, Miz Debbie."

"Good." Miz Debbie Browning was what his own ma liked to call 'a certain age,' which meant he shouldn't even think of asking. About the same as Miz Barnes, though, he figured. Closer to his own age than to the Carlyles, if only by a little. The last time he'd seen her, on the train platform as he and Cookie got loaded up for Whateley, she'd been all-in on blue jeans and flannel. Right now, she was wearing a no-sleeve flowy dress in bright yellow with pink flowers. The apron in front was the same as always, though. "You must be starving. Did they feed you anything on the flight?"

"Had a reheatable dinner thing."

"Not enough." So came the declartion of someone who was serious when it came to making dinner. "I got a quickie stew ready. Cheating a little because they had pre-made roux in the cupboard, but..."

"I'm sure it shall be delicious," said Mr. Carlyle. "And Cody?"

"Up here, John." Cordelia Carlyle leaned against the frame of the front door and waved.

"You need to get back inside and sit down," said Miz Debbie. "I've told you. He's told you. And between the two of us, we might make one M.D., so you'd better listen!"

Mr. Carlyle was already sweeping up the stairs to greet his wife with a delicate hug and a kiss. "She's right, you know. Let's get you inside."

The stairs went up a good dozen steps or so, wooden planks on wooden frame that groaned as Cookie climbed them. Through the open door, he could see the middle of the house was a big, open space, kind of like the foyer in Twain, but with all the sofas and chairs moved to the side. The cushions remained in a pile on the floor. "I was thinking Cookie could bed down in here," said Mr. Carlyle. He guided his wife to a chair near the door to what looked like a kitchen. "Mm, that does smell good."

"Come and get yourselves a bowl," said Miz Debbie.

Went without saying that the stew was good. Basic meat, carrots, and potatoes was hard to mess up, though he'd seen a few classmates in the Whateley culinary workshops manage the impossible in all the worst ways. A warm meal in his stomach made the rest of the long day--about two thousand miles long--make itself felt. He could magic up a plate of donuts for them all, but otherwise he needed to sleep. Mr. Carlyle helped him move his bags into the first floor bedroom, right by where Cookie was hunkering down in pup's own cushion castle, and then it was lights-out. Tomorrow was going to be a big, bright, busy day.

Saturday, Dec. 23rd, 2016

His brain was still on a northern latitude, somewhere between 43 and 45, and it wasn't expecting morning to come till it was halfway to noon. The Caribbean sunshine had different ideas, and things were bright and shiny at...

His hand thumped about the lamp table for a few seconds before locating his phone. 5:20 AM. Couldn't even blame jet lag much for how he groaned, because here and Whateley were in the same time zone. He tried ignoring the daylight, but the lovely curtains did hardly anything to block it out. The room was stuck in a mellow yellow morning, and he didn't have a choice. With a grumble, he stumbled over to the little private washroom with its shower, had a quick one, brushed his teeth, and got dressed. Shorts, t-shirt, flip-flops. He was used to wearing more than this in the middle of summer.

"Good morning!" chirped Miz Debbie when he got to the kitchen. Cookie was already there, waiting for the industrial can opener to do its job and deliver unto pup a yummy meal.

Daniel's own plate was set at the table, with fresh-made waffles, sausages, and a pair of sunny-side-up eggs. "Um, where's Miz Cordelia and Mr. Carlyle?" he asked.

"Out enjoying the morning," she told him. There was a smile on her face, but it didn't quite get to the eyes. "You two can go and find them after breakfast, okay?"

"What about you?"

"Me? I'll just be tidying up so Cordelia's comfortable, then maybe take a walk. There's a cabana a ways down the beach with a killer daiquiri." She chuckled at him. "Daniel, you and John are here on business. Cordelia and I are here to relax, and to each her own."

"Fair 'nuff," he said around a mouthful of waffle. He chewed thoughtfully for a second. "Um, what kinda syrup is this?"

"Snozzberry. Special product of Karedonia." Miz Debbie laughed to herself. "Apparently Her Highness saw Charlie and the Chocolate Factory as a child and got terribly disappointed that they weren't a real thing, so she made them herself. I've already got a couple jugs of the stuff to mess around with, if you feel like baking."

"Always am."

Shades were a must as he stepped outside. Normally he wore them to hide the pink frosting rings of his eyes, but the morning sun was enough to make them more than just a... His waffle-fueled brain grabbed at the word. More than just an affectation. He flip-flopped down to the scrubby lawn in front of the rental house, then waited for Cookie to make the leap from the front porch to the grass.

Pup landed with a heavy thump and lolling tongues. "Aroof!"

"Hey, pup. Chase you." Never a chance of racing or catching, but Cookie loved any excuse to run. And Daniel knew he needed the exercise, himself. The next half-hour was spent huffing and puffing across the sand, and occasionally into the surf.

First time that happened, Cookie put a dent into the beach sand from leaping back in fright as pup's toes got tickled by the waves. With a bit of encouragement, Daniel got pup to dip a paw in the warm water.

"See? Just like the lake at school, right?"

Two doggy noses sneezed in reply, as if to say, "No, not like," but Cookie made an experimental splash with the left paw, and then with the right, and then they were both getting soaked as the chase continued.

More people were on the beach, walking or swimming or just enjoying the sun, and most of them were human. Crazy that he had to use a word like 'most,' but after a semester at Whateley, it was a familiar sort of crazy. There were the drow ladies in their boldly colored bikinis--but only the ladies. He hadn't seen any drow guys yet. Then there were a group or two of animen, like his fellow Twain resident Charger, just not horsey. Doggy or porky or sheepish, yeah, but he didn't see any horse-guys. For their part, the animen took one look at Cookie and quickly went walking in the other direction.

Some other folk, Daniel couldn't really say for sure. There were some muscular guys in lifeguard uniforms, but the rest of their look was uniform, too. Slick skin, kinda bluish, no hair on top, and fin-shaped ears. Back toward the dunes, rugged brown guys with pointed ears and upturned noses were clearing brush. Again, public employees, looking all the same-ish. Daniel figured it was one more thing he'd better not ask about.

Pup's ears pricked, and one flat nose pushed against his shoulder. Daniel turned around to see Mr. Carlyle waving to them from the rental house's front porch.

"Guess it's time for business, huh?"

"Wrf?"

After a quick shower and one more plate of waffles with snozzberry syrup, Daniel was dressed in what some of his friends in Twain might call 'Sunday best.' Old Reverend Barkus wouldn't've approved of a polo shirt, or a blue shirt, or a shirt with short sleeves, or one without a necktie--basically, everything the boy was now wearing, or not wearing, in that exact moment. Not that it mattered. It was still Saturday, and he was wearing parachute pants because no one was going to tell him no. Also, the side pockets were perfect for holding his phone, a little notebook, pens, and magician scarves.

The little truck-a-thing didn't look any better in the daylight.

With Cookie lolling tongues in back, they were off at whatever the speed limit was. He didn't see any signs with numbers, but he figured it must exist. The decent green vehicle glided across several lanes of traffic and merged onto the main avenue that went around the east end of the capital. From his seat, Daniel could see downtown Grand Wilkinsville, though it was mostly as a conglomeration of domes and blocky governmental buildings. The avenues rose from ground level to loop around the central dome like concrete halos, and when they passed by, he could sort of see big gardens and a castle inside.

"In Xanadu did Kubla Khan a stately pleasure dome decree..." Mr. Carlyle murmured to himself.

"Where Alph, the sacred river, ran through caverns measureless to man," Daniel continued. "Down to a sunless sea... um, it almost fits?"

"Well enough," said the Doc. "Where did you learn that?"

"Miz Barnes finished up the semester with a poetry unit. It was a neat one to read. Also did some Kipling, Whitman, Watterson..."

"I knew there was something I liked about your English teacher."

Seen from above, most of Grand Wilkinsville could be split between the hyperfuturistic city center with its imperial pleasure domes, menageries, and botanical garden, and then the older, green-covered outskirts, what might have been the capital before Gizmatic conquered and remodeled. Everywhere he looked, up on the highways or down on the city streets, vehicles were in motion. Lots of them weren't cars. Some of them he couldn't give a name to, but they looked real cool.

Mr. Carlyle bit off a swear word as a thing that was pretty much all wheel with a seat balanced in the middle swerved across their lane at high speed. The one-wheelie hit a ramp along the side without slowing down, launching off of it and somehow not succeeding in getting its rider killed as it landed on a separate strip of highway and kept on accelerating. "Insanity..." said the old man.

"Kinda looked like a video game," said Daniel.

"No extra lives for us, I am afraid." The Doc kept his eyes on the road and local traffic, but his knuckles were white against the decent green steering wheel. "Ah, there's our exit."

The way they pulled across four lanes, barely missed a motorcycle and threaded between a couple of trucks, didn't seem much safer to him, but at least the Gizmobile's wheels never left the pavement. The city streets around the Royal Karedonian Para-Zoological and Botanical Gardens were quieter. Most of them were marked as service roads, and theirs was the only people-car Daniel could see. Just overhead, monorail lines carried tourists and workers. At least, the sleek monorail cars all seemed to be going to the main entrance. The street they were on came to an obvious back-end with a loading zone.

Daniel was out of the car as soon as it was parked. "You doin' all right, pup? Got a little shaky there."

Both sets of puppy dog eyes stared mournfully, and the barrel chest huffed from an upset tummy.

"Yeah, better give you the medicine on the way back. No whining!" he said, even as pup did just that. "Gotta be on our best behavior, right? C'mon, hop down." He opened the rear gate, which somehow rolled out of the way instead of just unfolding, and let the pup's unsteady paws find the way down.

Mr. Carlyle called, "When you two are ready, there's someone you need to meet." The old man was speaking with one of the drow ladies, face to face and eye to eye only because he was still at street level and she was several steps up the stairs to the loading dock. When she descended to greet them, Daniel was surprised to see she was maybe an inch taller than he was--and even that might've been the shoes down below and the puff of silvery-white hair on top.

"Well, howdy you," she said. "Been hearin' all sorts 'a things 'bout the two of you. Doc Carlyle talks you up so much, you'd think you were his grandkids."

"For all intents and purposes," the old man admitted. "Ahem. Daniel? Cookie? May I present our hostess for this event, Lady Bova Price-Lecroix, Marchioness Zoologica and Secretary of the Menagerie. She oversees the Royal Karedonian Para-Zoological and Botanical Gardens and Royal Biotechnology and Abominations World Kennel Club Association."

"Just Bova's fine," said the drow. "Save the formality for the big important events."

Daniel wasn't sure what counted as big and important around these parts, and he hoped someone would warn him if they happened. But for now, "Um, nice to meetcha, Miz Bova."

"Oh, ain't you the cutest thing!" The lady had to lean up just a little to tousle his hair. "Twain Cottage, right? I'm a Whitman girl, myself. Class of 2010!" she said with pride. "And you, pupper! Who's a good... er, gender-neuter abomination against all laws of creation? Hm?" The question came as Bova pinched the jowls on Cookie's left face and flopped them playfully.

"I can see why Her Imperial Highness put you in charge of the menagerie," said Mr. Carlyle.

"Yeah, I just love me some critters, even before I almost turned into a cow. But come on!" she said. "Let's go see yours, yeah?"

Cow...? He was kind of glad the quick pace set by the drow kept himself from asking anything more. That had Whateley Drama written all over it.

The back end of the Para-Zoological Gardens was busy as a beehive and about as cellular. The space inside seemed to be subdivided into ever smaller modular block sections, with storage cuboids for food, supplies, and specimens, all shuffled around as needed. Most were organized into big collectives, with critters visible through thick plastic barriers. Daniel wished those barriers didn't have so many dents and cracks on them, on the inside.

"Dr. Carlyle," Miz Bova was saying. "For now, we've secured your specimens in Sector II-a-sub-1, right over there. Acclimatization's coming along well, and we should have them ready for limited release into the sub-alpine biome in time for the show. Most of them, at least."

Daniel wasn't sure he liked the sound of that, or the sight of the critters. He and Cookie didn't have particularly fond memories of any of them, but as they peered through the barriers to see, he could at least show interest. The conkerdinks were there, racing up plastic frame 'trees' and absailing down. The overgrown flying squirrels with the super-tough noggins were enjoying themselves, and he could even say they were kinda cute, now that they weren't trying to connect directly with his own forehead.

In the next enclosure, a pair of rubberados were bouncing around. The beachball-shaped porcupine critters squabbled with each other, but paid the observers no mind.

Cookie growled when they reached the next section, and the inhabitants could be heard growling back. The remaining pack of jackalopes bared fangs. Most hadn't survived an extermination campaign by the Idaho National Guard over the summer, and he wasn't too happy to see how many'd made it out alive. They apparently returned the sentiment.

"Her Highness is interested in adapting them to serve as pest control for the upland regions of the island," Bova informed them. "Some truly misbegotten experiments have gone feral over there, and it's not like they can muck up the ecosystem any more than it already is."

"Um, guess that's good for 'em," muttered Daniel. He was relieved when they walked away from the pack's enclosure.

Not happy for long, though. The last area in the section was partially furnished with carpet scraps and a plastic climbing tree, but the inhabitant was nowhere to be seen. That'd be because it was in a protective crate. When Bova let them into the enclosure, whatever was in the crate woke up, and with a high-pitched snarl it began whacking at the insides. Nyaarrr... whomp, whomp, whomp.... The whomps came so fast and furious that for a second the crate visibly lifted off the ground before falling back with a thud.

"Yeah, it's a feisty little thing," said Bova.

"Um, what is it?" asked Daniel. He hadn't thought anything else'd survived out of Doc Talltale's old menagerie, but...

The Doc's saner incarnation was looking embarrassed. "Ahem, we recovered one last gestation tub from the old lab, last September," he admitted. "It must've been the final project he... er, I began before the dementia treatments kicked in. We decanted it in late November, here at the menagerie. It's..."

Nyaarrr... It was a little sound, from a little throat, but it was bigly fierce. Daniel knew it, and so did Cookie, who whined out of both noses with worry. Looking in through a grate at the top, he could see something like a bobcat kitten with kind of a Persian face, all pushed in with jutting lower teeth. It was hard to see from the angle, but he knew it'd be heavyset with short legs that jutted out sideways and kept it close to the ground.

Nyaarrr... Thud. The crate rocked as its inmate accelerated to a full stop against one side. He didn't even need to see the ID card on it to know what it was: a baby splintercat.

"...I'm sorry I never mentioned it," Mr. Carlyle was saying as they left the menagerie's backrooms for the big convention center. "We weren't even sure what it was in the gestation tub until we decanted it. I know you had a difficult experience with the original splintercat, but..."

"It's okay," said Daniel. "Just surprised. A little sad, too. Poor thing's all alone and too grouchy to be anything else."

"We've been making attempts at socializing it," said Miz Bova, though the stress on the word 'attempts' left no doubt how that was going. "It's an ornery little thing, but it's still just a kitten."

"Yeah..." As soon as they were on the elevator, he had his notebook out, jotting down a few thoughts. The splinterkitten was mostly bobcat, otherwise housecat, maybe a bit of mountain lion, and that all meant meat, not baked goods. His powers wouldn't work with that, so he'd need to get creative...

"Daniel, we're here," said Mr. Carlyle as the elevator door opened and the world got a bit wider.

And wilder.

And weirder.

"Still setting up, of course," said Miz Bova, as if the half-built mini-mountain in the center of the convention zone weren't a hint. "Gonna have it all put together by Boxing Day, though."

To the left and to the right, Daniel could see fenced-off areas sporting completely different biomes, some already inhabited by special exhibits. The Royal Biotechnology and Abominations World Kennel Club Association's convention was really more of a show and tell than a competition, as Miz Bova was explaining. Not that there wasn't a combat event--and a bloody one it tended to be--but most of the attendees cared too much for their precious creations and/or abominations to use them in pointless bloodsports.

"So, your pup's on record as a Class 3 Living Artifact," Miz Bova continued. "Mid-megafauna weight class. One of four exhibits in that class this year, which is actually kind of a lot. Should be a good show."

"Um, what else is there?" asked Daniel.

"Well, Dr. Bullinsky's Boarauchs is still under transit sedation. Not a happy camper," the drow lady noted. "And Dr. Tanishi's racing snail is off getting itself moisturized. That just leaves... oh, where is she... Roxie!" she hollered. "Get'cher girl over here!"

Somewhere around the side of the half-finished mountain, there was an answering "Okay!" followed by a surprised shout and a yelp. There was a rumble through the flooring as something large came barreling around the mountain at high speed.

"Stop! Stop!" the voice echoed.

"Pup? Intercept."

Both heads shared the barest of nods as the overly large and exceptional solid mutant Boston terrier planted paws and braced for a new arrival. A double-barreled "Woof!" meant "Stop!"

With a loud squawk, the thing skidded to a stop, and Daniel could get a better look at it. Maybe Cookie's size, but felt scrawnier. Very fluffy, in the feathered sense. Four legs, less doggo and more teddy bear, but otherwise not mammal. A big, rounded face with even rounder eyes, surrounded by different shades of fluff, and a heavy beak that opened to say, "Ghu-hu?"

"Woof!"

"Ghu-hu."

"Warf?" Cookie relaxed, doggy faces grinning and tail wagging.

The other beastie puffed out even more, pulling back and hissing slightly.

"Bob your head!" called the voice behind the beast. The speaker'd almost caught up with them. "Keep eye contact and move it up and down!"

"You heard her," Daniel said to Cookie. Pup nodded and then kept nodding, rocking the heads vertically and horizontally like they were listening to a music video but never breaking eye contact with the other critter.

The fluff settled down as it stared back, and its own head began to bob on automatic. "Ghu-hu..." More bobbing. "Ghu-hu!" Eyes were no longer wide and surprised, but rather angled and happy, and a pair of horn-shaped feather-ear-things stood up from the top of the head. Cookie and their new friend-shaped thing were bouncing and bobbing in place, dancing to their own music.

"There you are!" And the critter's handler had caught up. At a few inches shorter than himself, the drow girl was the shortest he'd yet seen--even shorter than Bova. And younger.

"Roxie, I thought you said Specimen OB-17 was ready for showing?" Miz Bova was definitely more of a Marchioness Zoologica right then.

"She is!" said Roxie. "Just, um, first time for her in a new place, all the noise and excitement? Kind of... overwhelming? Yanno?"

Daniel chimed in. "And she didn't hurt anyone, right? Settled right down."

"Exactly! Thanks, um... who?" The drow girl only just then clocked that she didn't know the young man or his pup standing before her. With an "Eep!" she retreated behind the feathery not-a-bear birdsome critter.

"Daniel," said Miz Bova. "I'd like you to meet Roxanne Sharpe, Her Imperial Highness's owlbear wrangler. Roxie? This is Daniel Diggins, with his doggo, Cookie. As you might 'a guessed, they're showing in your division this year."

A hand waved from behind a feathered ruff. "H-hello."

He'd met shy girls before. A lot of Whitman's freshmen class were nervous around strangers, and often for awful bad reasons. But if he'd learned one thing from Whateley, it was how to meet people properly. Only took him a second to figure out how. With a pat on the neck, he got Cookie to woof out a new greeting, which the bird-thing answered. Then: "So what'cha got there?"

Miz Bova answered first. "It's an owlbear. Strictarctus wilkinsii. One of Her Highness's pet projects."

"It got a name?" he asked.

"OB-17," said the drow lady.

Daniel craned his neck a ways to make sure the younger drow girl knew he knew she could see his face, and then he repeated, "Got a name?"

"Crumpette," came the reply.

"Not officially," Miz Bova was quick to say.

"No reason not to have a nickname," he reasoned. "Like Cookie here. If we used pup's full and official name every single time, we'd be here all night."

That made Mr. Carlyle laugh from where he'd been watching at a safe distance. "Yes, I'm afraid I was not in my right mind when I named, well, anything. Cookie's a much better moniker. And... Crumpette? A sweet name for a handsome specimen." The doc wasn't getting any closer than he needed to the owlbear, though.

"So... what's it eat?" He kept his eyes on Roxie as he asked. This time Miz Bova took the hint and stayed quiet.

"P-pretty much anything," said the girl. "I mean, she's got a hefty protein requirement, and several essential vitamins need to be supplemented, but Her Highness kept the ursine alimentary system largely intact. So she can eat pretty much anything we can--but not at the dinner table, Crumpette!" she warned as the owlish ear-horns perked. "Um, why do you ask?"

"Well, it's just about pup's snack time," said Daniel. He took one of his magician's scarves from the thigh pocket of his pants, shook it over his outstretched hand, and then with a flourish magicked a room-temperature meat pie into existence. As Cookie's first head noshed, he made another pie for the second head to enjoy. "Do you think Crumpette'd like one?"

Looming next to the girl now, the feathered monstrosity was proving that owlet eyes could be just as pitiful as puppy dog eyes. A faint "Ghu-hu?" trembled through the air.

Roxie looked to Miz Bova, and the senior drow nodded back. "Um, sure? I guess?"

"Alrighty. Probably better if you give it. So, hands, please?"

The girl held out both hands, palms up. Daniel had to take a moment to reposition them, and he was thinking how he hadn't paid much attention to how odd drow were in some ways. Not that he'd been paying any mind to the hands when he met Miz Bova, or the customs agents at either end of his flight, but seeing them up close, they were about the same color on the palms as on the back. He knew plenty of kids at Whateley who were technically what most folks would call 'black,' but they all had noticeably paler palms. Roxie had smooth black skin, equally black palms, and nails that looked naturally a navy blue shading to purple. And then her hands were full of meat pie, which she almost dropped from surprise.

"Um, how?"

"It's what I do." He lowered his sunglasses enough to wink at her. "My one weird trick, guess you could say. Hey, doc? You want one?"

"The usual, if you could."

"One cranberry apple fried pie, coming up." It took about the length of the words to magic one up for the old man. "And you, Miz Bova?"

"Can you do anything with almonds?" the lady asked.

"Got something you might like, then," he told her. A second later, he was handing her a sticky square of cake with slice almond on top. "It's a Middle Eastern dessert. Got a lot of names, I hear, but the friend I got the recipe from calls it revanî. Sounded so good, I just had to try makin' it myself."

Roxie was staring at her empty hands, and then at the happy owlbear face with crumbs at the corners of the beak. "And you just make it?"

He shrugged like it was no big whoop. "Some stuff's easy, like donuts. Other stuff, I gotta learn and practice makin' it a few times before I can magic it up. You got a favorite?"

"Um... snozzberry cream?"

Another shrug, accompanied by an apologetic grin. "Sorry, ain't learned how to do anything with snozzberries yet. Raspberry tart okay?"

"Yeah, I guess... oh!" Violet eyes went wide as he placed the dessert in her hand. "That does look good."

"I'll see 'bout working up some new recipes soon," he promised. "Miz Debbie 'n I got plans for some snozzberry syrup next chance we get. Ain't ever had any before this morning, actually."

"Oh! You've been missing out!" said Roxie. "You know, I was one of the first people to taste-test Her Highness's original crop? You would not believe how sour those early batches were... um." She looked to Miz Bova. "But maybe I should get back to work?"

The lady herself looked to be holding back a giggle. "Since OB-17 appears to've calmed down, why don'tcha take her for a walk 'round the convention floor with our guests? Show 'em where everything is. Me and Dr. Carlyle can discuss displays for the other critters over here."

"Okay!" With nerves conquered, Roxie bounced along with Crumpette in tow. "I know where everything is 'cuz, you know, I'm like an assistant hostess for the event, and really, yeah, stuff's still getting assembled, but..."

Mostly conquered. Nervous babble was better than nervous silence, at least. Daniel just kept nodding as they walked along, with Cookie and Crumpette romping ahead of them.

Imperial Palace of Karedonia, Office of the Secretary of Intelligence

Despite the title printed boldly on her office door, Belphoebe Blackaddar-Wilkins, Duchess Sec-Intel, sometimes doubted her own. Not out loud and never in company, but life tended to test the resolve of those who tested it back. Even her odd progenitor had known that, though he'd often professed shock and dismay at how often his own schemes went awry. In fact, she may have had the opposite problem. Looking around her office with its beautiful furnishings, its beautiful artwork, everything down to the beautiful stapler and beautiful armchair, she might wonder if she were a victim of victory, trapped by her own success.

As gigs went, running the intelligence service for the world's premier mad science pocket dictatorship stood out on the old CV, at least. Across her desk, and behind it as well, the tools of her trade were collected: state of the art computers, a communications grid connecting to her to her many operatives, a port-a-pentacle with all the somatic ingredients for divination, conjuration, or abjuration--just add lamb's blood.

And the paperwork. Oh, the paperwork... in stacks and piles and reams so immense, she'd needed to renovate the filing cabinet with fifth-dimensial architecture to allow for true cross-filing. More than anything, she'd just love to torch it all the ground level. All she would need was a bigger flamethrower, and if she couldn't design one, then...

The door was locked, but that didn't stop someone from walking straight in. The sensors on the automated frame knew exactly who approached and that it needed to open immediately while playing the Karedonian Royal March. "I thought I had ordered everyone to disable that damn thing," came the common complaint. Belphoebe ignored it as usual.

"What brings you, parent dear?" she asked, with only mild sarcasm in her voice. It was the truth, if only by accident of genetics, cloning, and administrative fiat. The fact that they looked like sisters had little bearing on anything. Most early generation drow bore a passing-to-strong resemblance to Her Imperial Highness Jobe Ann Wilkins.

"Perhaps I merely wished to check in on things?"

"His Highness won't stop rabbiting on about his robots at the state luncheon, is that it?" A low growl confirmed it for her. "Well, touch grass and all that. Take a seat--oops, you already have--well, let's have a quiet one here. It is practically tea time after all. I shall even make it coffee time, just for you."

A button press summoned Mrs. Alvarez as surely as any mystic conjuration, and a sight less dangerous. The little old lady predated more than half of the literal island of Karedonia and strongly resembled a small, ambulatory boulder with a grey bun of hair and quartzite goggles. As she pushed the coffee service into the room, the woman gave the goat skull on the shelf a disdainful look and a "...necesita una pasada..."

Belphoebe wasn't sure what she would do without the old dear. Aside from making her own coffee. The signature Karedonian kaffalmandine blend smelled divine, especially to a drow's palate. She and Jobe sat back for a long while and relaxed in silence.

Not too long, of course. Business needs be. "I might as well take the daily briefing now," Jobe groused. "Someone is bound to ask."

"Right." With a whimsical wave of her finger, Belphoebe conjured up the wall projection. Pertinent data flowed across as she narrated largely from memory. Much as she despised dealing with it at times, this had been her excuse for avoiding the luncheon as well.

"Inbound security checks showing a congruence above 99%, to three decimal points," she said. "Like them or not, His Highness's analytical engines are proving useful at spotting contraband and other problematic elements. Most are willing to pay the excise tax to avoid confiscation, and their data are added to future watch lists. Five foreign agents have arrived in the past forty-eight hours," she continued. "Covert, but not hiding it from our security personnel. All appropriate fees provided, conduct agreements signed, and they're off to whatever spying they intend. One hit squad." She paused to sip her coffee and hide her grimace. "Not up to date on their permits. Freight Train had to read them the riot act. They made their one phone call, paid up the fines in full, and then the extra 24-hour no-tell premium. They've yet to make a move, and their target's assassination insurance warning happens at six this afternoon. There's a betting pool down in the lobby."

"I'm sure there is." Jobe rolled her eyes. "Is there anything of interest to me?"

"Protests are ongoing at the convention center." The projection shifted to the main entrance, with KAREDONIAN ROYAL BIOTECHNOLOGY AND ABOMINATIONS WORLD KENNEL CLUB ASSOCIATION somehow all fitting on a banner above it. The picket signs below it were pithier, but far less congenial. "In all seriousness, why are we entertaining these morons? I know they paid all permit fees for peaceful demonstration, however..." The group Humans Against the Ethical Treatment of Monsters, or HAET'M, was mostly loud and obnoxious in a blustery manner. Not the worst, as far as these groups went. The security detail set to observe them were for all intents and purpose's the group's bodyguards as well, since a particular fraction of the local population resembled their remarks, as it were.

"Uncle Ralph has advised me not to take any action for which the United Nations would sanction us, yet again," Jobe said dryly. "And, as the rest of the UN delegates like him far more than myself, I am inclined to trust his judgment on this matter. We've still a ways to go before we may export our newest cash crop." She nodded her royal appreciation to Mrs. Alvarez for the timely refill of the genetically engineered coffee-almond hybrid brew known under the trademark of Kaffalmandine. "Really, I wish they would trust me more, now that snozzberries have become such a hit, but..."

"Once bitten by a potato, twice shy on all vegetables," said Belphoebe.

They finished with a view of the convention interior, where the full setup was coming along nicely. Some of the less-aggressive specimens had already been moved in from the menagerie backend. Belphoebe let herself relax a little. This always made the imperial princess happy--

"Who the fuck is that."

Or it should have, at least. "Who the fuck is whom?" she inquired.

"There, with Roxie." Jobe pointed and the projector obeyed, zooming the focus to where the digit indicated. Little Roxanne Sharpe the owlbear wrangler was walking along with her charge, as well as a rather large canine of the orthrusoid variety, and a boy of about her age. "I thought the rules of the show were clear: No high school biodevisor projects."

"He's not a presenter." Details sprang to mind. "He's a handler, working for the devisor formerly known as Doc Talltale, the one with miniature menagerie of fearsome critters. It was in the briefing dossier, as you might recall."

"Yes..." They both knew Her Highness had been more focused on the jackalopes in that collection, and how the hyper little obligate carnivores might slot into the weirdness of the upland ecosystems. "I don't like him being here."

"Why... ah." On screen, Roxie had found something of interest to show, or perhaps merely the excuse to glom onto the young man's arm and drag him over to see. The young man did not seem to object at all. "He doesn't look to be a bad sort. Not an exemplar, but decently fit. Good with dogs?"

"I want to know everything there is to know about him," Her Highness decreed. "Full dossier, no stops, tomorrow morning."

"Ah, perhaps that is a little much?" Belphoebe noted.

"Just do it," came the royal command once more.

"Understood..." Oh, she hoped there wouldn't be too much to the boy. A drow needed her beauty sleep, after all.

To Be Continued

Read 102 times Last modified on Monday, 27 October 2025 23:51

Published in Canon: Second Generation

Tagged under